


Leaves Got Up in a Coil and Hissed

by rachg82



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachg82/pseuds/rachg82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic began in 2011 as a single image in my mind that just wouldn't leave: fifteen-year-old Brennan in an empty house, standing by the door. It slowly evolved from there, delving further into themes I'd briefly touched on in previous fics, & ultimately becoming a short series of less-than-linear snapshots. A verbal panorama, if you will.  It took me eight months to finish & was a true labor of love (with some periodic writer's block thrown in just to keep things interesting).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaves Got Up in a Coil and Hissed

**Author's Note:**

> First, there are a couple mild mentions of implied self-harm in this fic, so please be aware of that going in. Second, y'all know how I roll, so there are a handful of obvious quotes strewn throughout -- those will be cited at the end. We good? Good.
> 
> As (almost) always, this rachg82-led foray into Bones Land will come with music. There'll be one to set the tone at the beginning & another to cap it off at the end.

  


( _Butterfly_ , Tom Pyrdol)

 

_"There are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. And no one is lying. Memories shared serve each one differently."_ \- Robert Evans

\---  
\---

A single pale hand is rising in the wake:

_stop_

and look.

The house  
opened up wide  
and blew everything away.

Just like that.

_Here's the church; here's the steeple._

(look again, and see)

Life disappearing  
because no one is watching.

That's how it goes.

This is no false alarm.  
There are no credits preparing to roll.  
This is real.

A portrait is forming in the shadows,  
one girl waiting at the door.

The threshold has been broken.  
There's no turning back.

Thunder, dizzy, on the march--  
her pulse is rushing through her ears,  
circling her vision  
& tricking the floor.  
First it's here, &  
then  
it's not.

Steady, now.

A riot of paresthesia  
keeps dancing beneath her skin.

It doesn't make sense.  
The turning of the clock;  
their absence;  
the sun  
rising  
& setting  
without them.

_Where'd they go?_

Every minute,  
every second  
is proof.

Proof of what's real,  
proof of what's not,  
proof  
that what she sees  
when she looks in the mirror  
has actually been there  
all along.

She feels nothing  
but raw.

There's an answer for all of it  
somewhere,  
but no one's asking the right questions.

15 years old,  
not quite grown & not quite young,  
Temperance Brennan is building a hypothesis  
and remains  
still.

The word "remains"  
can mean many things.

(be a testament)

_If your heart is bleeding,  
make the best of it._

She is learning a lesson  
about how to  
hold on.

This  
is how you stand  
in the eye of a storm,

…don't forget.

Don't let go.

Face to the wind,  
both feet on the ground,  
her lacy white anklets won't stop slipping.

It's more bothersome than it should be.  
She's not sure why she's even wearing them in the first place.

All the same,  
there's a high stack of dominoes in her wide-eyed brain,  
and it is tumbling,  
tumbling  
down.

(One by one, they fall)

Her body holds its breath.  
It knows this is just the beginning.

Nerves stretched taut,  
amp set to eleven,  
she likes things to make sense.  
A place at the table-- _this is where I go_.  
This is why we're here.

This  
is what it means  
for the fork to be there  
and the napkin to be  
here  
at six o'clock sharp in the evening.

It feels good to belong,  
to know what comes next,  
to inhale  
deeply  
& know what to say.

They don't expect her to speak.  
They don't mind when she does.

There is no script, but they are her score.  
Each note serves a function.  
Each life has a beat.

_1, 2, 3, 4._

A perfect measure,  
no mistakes.

Four right angles make it a home.

Dividing the universe up  
by column & row,  
networked cells of painted passion  
learned by rote;  
her world can only be translated at best,  
like geometric  
equations  
composed by a synesthete.

The beauty is logical.

The table is gone.  
Her place doesn't exist.

These are the facts  
and so much more.

(All the king's horses & all the king's men)

_Brace for impact._

It cannot be undone, my friend,  
only redefined. That is the truth.

There's smoke on the horizon now,  
left behind--a sign, some might say;  
murky metaphors sliding  
past figurative lips.  
She can't understand their meaning,  
can't understand  
why people won't just say  
what they mean  
and mean what they say.

Perception is full of lies,  
both big & small.

Russ  
told her she'd be okay,  
told her they both would  
in time.

He said it in a heaving rush  
again & again  
as if repetition could somehow make it real--  
the product of blind faith.

Is that what this is?

Their home is empty  
and the air hangs.  
A sudden museum, a deserted wake,  
a homecoming  
in a different light;  
it's waiting for life to return.

Like the story of a pup  
growing old beside its owner's grave,  
our possessions are loyal.

They do not let go.

It's irrational, she knows,  
but  
in a way  
she understands  
and yearns to build a lighthouse,  
one she can pick up and take with her  
wherever she goes.

Someone really should've locked that door.

(She will tell herself it doesn't matter)

_Things should be moving_.  
Dirty dishes on pause, forgotten in the sink;  
they behave as if nothing bad  
had ever happened here  
& perhaps never could.

It's a pretty picture  
until you focus in.

The devil is in the details,  
you see.

Temperance has found that she cannot speak.

Her mouth has been hollow for days--  
she said no goodbyes.

Russ just tilted his head helplessly  
and sighed  
as she refused to look him in the eye.

Sometimes, fare thee wells are a mere formality.

Sometimes,  
it hurts to look.

_What is the point?_

Impossibly, it would seem the heavens have reversed their orbit.

It turns out nothing  
is right  
or as it should be  
anymore.

Only four weeks ago, plans were being made. Routines were kept.  
The planets stayed aligned.

Students in locker rooms  
snickered.  
Strangers at the supermarket stared.

Expectations stayed on course.

No friends,  
no sleepovers,  
no dates.

No matter. 

Headphones on and textbook open,  
each day is the same:

The other girls  
share secrets  
as they cheat off her tests.  
They join in packs,  
cough insults in the lunchroom,  
and ask why  
she always sits alone.

She's always hiding behind her hair.  
She never changes her shoes.

The boys stand back & place bets--  
bewitched, bothered & bewildered  
by their very own wandering sphinx,  
the one with the silent eyes  
and the perpetual frown.  
They want to crack her like a nut.

If adolescence in America is a three-ring circus,  
then she is its freak show.

(Gather 'round, admission is free)

_Can't you take a joke?_

Each night is no different:

Alienation  
follows her home;  
it knows where she lives.

Humiliation  
rides piggyback  
on webs of pink bubblegum,  
sticky & stubborn in her hair.

She lets her mom help  
with warm hands and  
soft words  
& tries to believe her  
when she says they're just jealous.

Truth be told,  
the time had long since past  
for Marco Polo  
and his easy, lopsided grin,  
reaching out to her through the glass.

Off on his motorcycle  
with dreams due west,  
young Brennan still worshipped the ground her big brother walked on.

He was everything she couldn't be.  
Her smiles were all symmetrical;  
she practiced them in the mirror before bed  
and rarely showed off her work.

In time, Max suggested martial arts.  
A mean right hook, he insisted.  
That's what she needed. 

(People were always trying to tell her what she needed.) 

_Ignore what the teacher says, honey. Aim for the cajones_ , he'd told her, miming a kick & knocking a plate over. 

"That's how we met," Christine added. 

Russ rolled his eyes, sitting nearby. Whether they were serious or not, he really didn't want to know.

Temperance set her book down, nonplussed. "By 'cajones', you mean you kicked Dad in the groin…and then broke a dish?" 

"Can we stop talking about groins now?" 

"Don't be such a prude, son." Max turned back to his daughter & tapped the counter two times. "Yes, exactly. Well, minus the dish part. I'm telling you, sweetie, there is nothing better than a smart, pretty girl who won't take any sh--"

"Matt!"

"What? You know I'm right. Those boys will be eating out of her hand. Once they can walk again, anyway. If."

Russ stood up. "All right, I'm out of here." 

Just another day.

Nothing special. 

Fake names, real memories,  
no answers.

Simply the Earth's rotational axis  
again & again;  
a whirling dervish in the sky.

_Sunrise, sunset._

All dressed up  
with nowhere to go.

(What now?)

Panic is bubbling desperately to the surface,  
despite her best efforts.

She is really not good with this type of change  
or any type for that matter.

Nobody asked her what she wanted  
or warned her of any upcoming plot twist.

The End  
certainly didn't RSVP  
before it crashed.

_It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to._

That's how the song goes, right?

She can't seem to line her thoughts up straight,  
too many frightened bees buzzing,  
trying to escape.

Ridiculous.

Except.

Somewhere deep, a voice is screaming--  
her tin can banging loudly for the guard.  
_Help me_.  
This is no way to gain control.

She will have to find another way.

The back of his head flashes through her mind:  
Marco (Polo)  
sailing away;  
an unreturned hug,  
a wave of the hand,  
a lonely call  
without the response.

He's gone.

Happy New Year,

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

Sincerely,

10,  
9, 8,  
7, 6, 5…

…Snow slaps the face;  
her body is cold.  
She can't stand at this door forever.

Muddy footprints staining the carpet,  
they don't matter now.  
No one lives here anymore.

They'll be here soon. That's what he said.

She needs to pack.

This is no time for tears.  
It hurts to hurt  
and benefits no one.

Muscles locked, jaw set,  
Temperance closes the door  
and grabs a bag.  
It's time to go.

Her mother's clothes still hang in their closet.  
They smell like her, patiently waiting. 

_Past-tense_ , they say.  
_It's wrong that we're here_.

(Summer was past and day was past)

It will always  
be wrong.  
It always has been;  
she just never knew it.

_This is a symptom;  
you're the disease._

Her hands won't stop shaking.  
The room is too close.

It's all  
coming down,  
and she can't find her balance.

She can't.

It's her fault  
somehow.

(Somber clouds in the west were massed)

_Please don't make me leave._

These are the things she will learn  
without ever being taught.

Russ threw the Christmas Tree away before he left,  
but she can still see  
the stray pine needles lying side by side.  
Dutiful toy soldiers--one, two, three, four. A perfect-- 

Her presents remain unopened. They will come along. 

Deep breaths. 

Orphan Annie & her songs of tomorrow,  
marching, marching  
to the beat  
of a different drummer. 

She will open them once her parents return,  
dead or alive.  
She will keep watch.

This is the beginning of the end.

This is

_please don't make me go_

the beginning and  
the end.

Lessons in mortality,  
how life works:  
some things cannot last,  
some things always do.

The mind opens & shuts  
when it has to.  
It controls the heart,  
protects the soul.

This is how she survives.  
She does not forget.

Part of her will always be waiting--  
one girl's shadow  
behind the door,  
looking for her family still.

***

"What was it like? For you, I mean…" 

Years later, this is what people will want to know.  
What it was like. 

The question hangs, just halfway out of Angela's mouth, caught aloft by the spoon in her right hand. 

"It must've been hard." She shakes her head. "Of course it was. I'm not saying this right." 

Brennan looks up from her plate. This is how it always goes.

"You're saying it fine, Ange. And it's over now. That's all that matters."  
They turn back to their food. 

The spoon still hangs between them.

"Hey, Bren -- I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"

She doesn't know that.

"I know."

(The trick is in learning how to lie.)

***

Sweet 16  
and no card. 

No candles. No cake.

No party.

_I'll cry if I want to._

It's irrelevant.

She didn't want one anyway.

She doesn't make  
wishes.  
She makes plans.

There's a difference.

Still, she finds that she quite likes  
the impulsive sting of hot wax  
dripping on her skin,  
purchased with a five-finger discount.

The best kind.

They're going to be mad, it's true,  
when they see the celebratory mess she's made  
of this simple twin-sized bed,  
but she supposes it won't really matter,  
seeing as how her time here is almost up  
anyway. 

It usually is.

Russ called before,  
more than a minute too late,  
his voice distant & strange  
on a stranger's machine.

(Tempe, I'm sorry. Please talk to me.)

She didn't pick up  
and didn't regret it.

She has nothing  
to say to him.

Someday, they will discuss it,  
and she will tell him  
that she's sorry, too.

She always was.  
For what,  
she doesn't know. 

Right now, she's just angry.

Deep down,  
it's a lot like falling.  
She's still trying to get her grip.

This isn't  
her home.

This isn't her bed.

It isn't her family.  
It isn't her.

It isn't anything,  
really,  
but what it isn't  
and what it should be.

In a perfect world, this would all be different.

_Would you just--are you there?_

She's keeping both eyes on the nearest exit,  
indulging in the familiar dream  
of a show-stopping curtain call,  
one big enough to bring the house down.

The problem is  
there's no audience,  
and it wouldn't matter if there were.

Dreams are childish, anyway.

She's almost an adult. 

Under different circumstances, she could already be a mother.  
Not that she wants to be a mother,  
but that's not the point.

She doesn't want to be here.

She doesn't really want to leave.

She doesn't want anything  
but for everything to stop,  
if only for a while.

The tragedy is  
there's a peace sometimes  
in disappearing.

(She no longer remembers her mother's face)

And yet,  
Temperance knows  
that there are 24 hours in a day  
and 60 minutes in an hour;  
she knows that, tomorrow,  
today will be  
yesterday.

Good or bad,  
everything eventually becomes a memory.  
Sometimes it's best to forget,  
to pretend that you can.

Sometimes you don't have a choice.

(The body remembers everything)

…Keep it moving. 

_Don't look back._

She's got scars on her feet,  
that's the thing,  
a worn-out pair of tennis shoes  
blackened  
deeper & darker  
with every step.

It's like a procession without the ending;  
pillars of salt  
between each toe,  
trailing like breadcrumbs.

She remembers hearing once  
that white roses express grief,  
innocence,  
love;  
her unseen petals are wilting  
and pressed between the pages.

No one seems to notice,  
including her.

It's only a symbol, anyway,  
of something else,  
the garbage bag waiting by the door.

It doesn't have to mean anything.

Restless fingers picking, clenching--  
_stop_.

Four tiny crescents on her palm, there before she knows it,  
her own private galaxy;  
at least it's precise.

She can hear them through the walls,  
her foster parents,  
pounding closer,  
fading away,  
busy  
doing all they can  
to die just a little bit faster.

It's a house on fire,  
but they don't know it.

They sit there & burn.

It sets her teeth on edge,  
body stiff,  
shoulders curling.

She cannot feel it  
when they hug her,  
when they try.

Some do try, after all,  
until they don't.

(They mostly don't)

It's hard to watch  
and act surprised  
when it's over.

And it is over  
in all the ways that matter  
but one.

_Death is but one and comes but once_

For some, there are many practice runs.

Temperance is so, so tired  
of the word  
goodbye.

Hearing it,  
saying it,  
expecting it.

It's exhausting, but  
she's getting much better  
at turning away;  
she has to.  
Muscle memory in her sadness,  
in her veins,  
she believes she's getting stronger.

It's really nothing  
but the same promises repeated again & again.  
In the clear light of day,  
all the guilty words  
of good intentions & righteous mores  
have a funny way  
of losing their meaning.

Who do they even think they're kidding?

Their ambitious smiles  
are like nails on a chalkboard.  
These new beginnings never last.

A half-assed honeymoon phase  
is what it is,  
the entire thing--  
vaguely insulting to her intelligence.

_Take care, okay?_

She knows the truth;  
the bald-faced kind  
that lurks in the dark,  
succinctly whispering  
three little words.

(nobody wants you)

***

There's a simplicity behind closed lids,  
a solid stillness  
within pain,  
that holds its ground  
even when the sky above  
is falling down.

Ruth Keenan  
learns this quickly on the run,  
then relearns it  
with each haunted morning  
that passes her by,  
alone.

Except she's not alone,  
not really;  
it's just that her arms  
don't know that.

They dream in the night of their two lost children,  
one for each hand,  
fighting their way past endless currents.

They're trying  
as best they know how  
to make their way home.

It's an ache that never gives up.

_Holding the curve of one position_

Her head won't stay above water;  
the shore is too far away.

She's not going to make it.

Her sisters' voices  
reverberate in the dark,  
searching & asking--  
unrecognizable  
facsimiles.

"Weren't we something good?"

They're only copies, like her.

Christine Brennan.  
That's not her name.

Her past has been snuffed out,  
and she was the accomplice  
to the crime.

There aren't enough handcuffs in the world.

There are so few  
who will remember her  
for who she really was.

Whoever,  
whatever  
that means.

What will it even stand for  
when all is said and done?

She needs to know.

She has to believe  
they'll be okay.

Today is her daughter's sixteenth birthday.  
She won't be there to see it.

Outwardly, she appears calm.

On the inside,  
she is tearing down walls  
and making bargains  
with the ceiling.

It's not fair.

She wonders  
if they will ever meet again.  
The pain in her head  
tells her no.  
The pain in her heart  
repeats yes,  
yes.

Always, yes.

There is no other option.

One way or another,  
she's not going down without a fight.

As for Max,  
he never thought he'd stay on this Earth long.  
He came from nothing  
and assumed he'd end with nothing.  
Simple as that.

He only wanted to stay as long as he could--  
the trademark of a survivor.

The day they met, he smiled, slow & wide,  
and told her, "You just changed everything."  
She told herself  
that she didn't know what that meant,  
but she did.

And she does now.

She's here for a single purpose.

Off on the other side of the park,  
there are children shouting,  
pushing,  
spinning 'round & 'round.  
It's only a silly game,  
but everything is serious  
when you're young.

She remembers.

She never truly considered that there'd be an end.  
It was always out of reach.

Her mother called her an idealist,  
a day dreamer,  
a flower child.  
"Find someone to pull your head out of the clouds," she'd say. "That's my advice."

Marrying a brilliant science teacher seemed like a reasonable way to go.  
Little did she know,  
however,  
they'd come up with dreams of their own.  
Two, in fact. Smart & wild, more than a handful.  
Just like her.

By then,  
her mother was long gone,  
and soon enough  
so was she.

All that she has left of her now  
is this small ring.

'Round & 'round.  
(A pocket full of posies)

It's odd,  
staring into the mirrored eye of a camera,  
seeking out a connection that's not yet there.

Their time is all out of sync.

Someday, she hopes to make  
the two ends meet.

Until then, this is all she has.

One more chance  
to say hello,  
to say goodbye,  
to remind her  
of who she really is.

_"Remember this: you were cherished in this world."_

That's a wrap, as they say.

It needs to be enough.  
It has to.

To her far left,  
there's a lone blue-eyed girl  
focused on the sand,  
biting her lip,  
and glaring at the birds,  
forming a perfect castle for one,  
or maybe for two.

There's no telling  
what will come of her fine work  
once she calls it a day. 

Maybe that's the point.

Maybe  
the best-laid plans  
no longer belong to  
anyone, really,  
once their creator  
has walked away.

There's no perfect blueprint,  
it turns out,  
to keep the outside  
out  
or the inside  
in.

Her arms don't care.

They're tapping a morse code  
up & down her spine--  
S.O.S., S.O.S.;  
they still haven't gotten the original message.

She suspects they never will.

Maybe that, too,  
is the point.

***

"What about Lily?"

"Nope. Jane."

Brennan curls into Booth's neck,  
breathing him in,  
noting his quiet sigh in return.  
She's too tired to mince words.

One night  
here,  
in this bed, with this breath,  
is so much more.

A lifetime of nights  
is something else entirely.

She could sink right into this mattress.

"Okay. What is it with you & 'Jane'?"

She looks up. He's already staring her down, morning bed-head pointing every which way, no match for her eye-crusties. They make quite a pair. 

"Jane -- like Jane Goodall. Obviously."

He snorts. "Of course. I mean, why else?"

She rests her head back down, smiling. "I'm pleased you agree."  
Palm sliding across her back, he shakes his head in response. "No. No way. Us agree? Never."

"You seemed to agree last night."

Booth's hand stops. "What? We never even talked about baby names last night."

She's sneaky when she's naked. He should've known. 

Bones gives him an exaggerated wink. It's not a little on the awkward side, but she's honestly pretty cute when she tries, just in general.

He hopes she never gives up.

"Ooh. You just made a joke, didn't you?" His fingers tickle her waist. 

"Booth!" The cocky smile on her face quickly morphs into a frown. "You know I dislike tickling."

"Sorry." It's a struggle not to laugh. Still, he does his best to appear contrite. The thing is, she's even cuter when she's annoyed--finicky genius nose all bunched up like a surprise mouthful of sour grapes.

_Will their daughter like grapes?_

All day long, this is the type of thing he wonders.

It leaves him utterly defenseless.  
This thing between them,  
the words that speak when mouths are closed,  
always has.

The soldier in him no longer minds;  
he's more than ready to lay down arms.  
It's been a long campaign.

In truth, he never really saw this coming  
and somehow missed it before it did.

Fatherhood arrived in much the same way.

He can't help but wonder  
what comes next.

One skilled troop of phalanges makes its way south, abruptly stealing him from his thoughts. "You know I wasn't really serious about 'Jane', anyway. It's a bit old-fashioned." 

Her left pinky just invaded Brazil. Is he still supposed to be listening?

"You weren't?"

"No. But I find that my Pinochle Face gains a great deal of efficacy as far as you're concerned once my bra's been removed." 

Like he said. Sneaky. Also, _Pinochle Face?_

Really, Bones? 

He eyes her busy fingers, musing dryly, "I thought you were tired."

She grins. "I'm practicing my Itsy Bitsy Spider technique."

Both of Booth's eyebrows shoot up. "That's not how it's done, babe."

"This is the adult version."

Well.

He rolls her over. "Maybe 'Jane' isn't such a bad name after all."

There's that face again. "Yes, it is."

"You see? I told you we never agree."

And she wouldn't have it any other way.

***

It's been said  
that those who suffer  
know how to be grateful.

Those who cry  
know how to smile.

At seventeen years old,  
Temperance has only got  
one down,  
but practice makes perfect.

Supposedly.

For what it's worth  
(and it's worth a lot),  
she will get there eventually,  
though she doesn't know that yet.

What she does know  
is that she doesn't understand;  
those three little words,  
what they even mean,  
exactly how  
people do  
what they do,  
the looks on their faces as they carry on;  
she's always left behind.

Though, perhaps,  
that map was flawed from the start.

It might be the  
other way around--  
lost generations of tortoises  
lapping the hare from behind.

She remembers  
her dogged big brother finding her  
on one long, unannounced walk after the other,  
begging her to slow down,  
yelling  
that she was going to worry  
their parents to death.

He used to jokingly call them her walkabouts  
and apologize  
for the lack of sand,  
as if he were personally responsible for the Earth.

Each & every time,  
he'd raise his eyes to the clouds,  
seeking out patterns,  
as she explained once again  
what a walkabout really meant,  
crossed her arms against her chest  
& exhaled in a short, staccato refrain:  
"People. don't. die. from. worry."

_Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words…_

Later, after dragging her home,  
he'd announce to no one in particular,  
"We need to put a bell on this one. Like a cat."

Their father had only one response:  
"Our Tempe was born a wanderer. You leave her alone, she'll land on her feet. She just needs a soft place to fall." 

He was always more concerned that Russ  
would be the child to stray  
and not return.

These days,  
she still sometimes takes off,  
but now  
there's no one showing up  
to find her.

In a week,  
she'll be leaving for college.

There certainly won't be anyone for her there,  
waiting in the wings,  
wiping their eyes with a smile.

It'll just be her, some boxes,  
and a room.

She already has the key,  
signed her name on the dotted line;  
here, now, as it should be,  
a place for everything  
& every thing  
in its place.

This time,  
it is her home.  
It is her bed.

She supposes that  
it is her.

After all, who else would it be?

Picture-framed shadows stretch across her face,  
dancing cheek to cheek,  
irises blooming  
between the sea & the sky,  
concrete elements in motion.

It's already been such a long way.

(the clock strikes on the hour)

Behind the door,  
she takes inventory--  
pausing  
just outside the flickering light.

On, off, on, off.

Ready?

Set.

Four blank walls, a broken sink,  
and an open window  
overlooking the street;  
it's quiet here,  
but she knows better than most  
exactly how loud a sunrise can be.

Men & women in their suits,  
boys & girls calling shotgun;  
rise & shine.  
Off they go each day.

They don't remember  
the sucking white noise  
of a pitch-black trunk;  
the scent of gasoline that lingered in the air  
as she numbly walked away;  
the blood-red clouds  
that erupted in her sleep, all night long--raining,  
raining down.

There was nothing she could do.

Her silence enraged them.  
Her voice confused them.

They could not stand  
the sight of her.

_If I just try harder, stand up straighter--_

Jack & Jill  
up on the hill  
fetching their pail of water,  
they don't see  
the world she's seen.

They have their own problems.

Sometimes,  
the old man downstairs,  
the one who stands by the cornerstore,  
shifting his feet,  
hums when they pass & points to the ground.

No one sings along  
except for her.

For once, she knows the words.

_It won't do any good._

(I can't be what you want me to be. I can only be.)

She is free,  
secluded, and ultimately on her own--  
stale breadcrumbs buried  
& forgotten--  
but fortunately, she doesn't mind  
keeping herself company.

It's the presence of others  
that she could take or leave  
most of the time,  
or at least  
that's what seems correct  
after the blur of faces that made up her youth.

She never did get a prom.  
Never made it through the door.

The things they thought of her,  
she's still trying.

Still counting all the beats,  
listening  
for the thunder,  
waiting for the lightning to strike.

She won't be caught by surprise again.

Her eyes are wide  
open.

And yet,  
years of her childhood  
keep slipping through her fingers.  
Hands frozen in the ice,  
six feet below,  
clawing  
their way to the surface,  
she can't bring them back.

All the memories--  
her father's voice, gift-wrapped  
souvenirs  
of photogenic smiles on Christmas Day--  
all sliced up to bits & projected  
in reverse  
on a nocturnal screen,  
_I miss you_  
on the tip of her tongue.

She's yet to speak the words aloud.

Not everything that's broken can be fixed.

What they were,  
what they could've been,  
what she is.

It's something new now.

She's determined to find some answers.  
She won't stop until she does. 

But that man in the gutter, he already knows  
what she really wants,  
what she can't say:  
the impossible answer to one  
single question.

_Why?_

***

It shouldn't surprise her  
how light the skull is.

It shouldn't feel  
like an anomaly.

Twisting it 'round in her hands,  
this way, that way,  
she finally has a grip  
on what has eluded her all her adult life--  
exactly what happened to her mother.

This is where she comes from;  
right here,  
tangible & true,  
nine months & an eternity.

Full stop.

Before Joy  
so much as took her first breath,  
blindly clenched her brother's finger  
with her fist,  
& planned who she'd become,  
she was but the spark of an idea  
inside her mother's brain.

It doesn't explain  
how the weight of the world  
could now seem suddenly so insignificant.

Pain this heavy should surely leave a mark  
on the Earth,  
let civilizations know  
for centuries to come,  
"I was here. You're living proof."

The skull is no lighter than dozens she's held before.  
It waited in the soil for years  
amongst the plants & seeds,  
rested in limbo  
beside nameless boxes,  
all laid out in a row, labeled with care.

The emptiness is merely an illusion,  
a delusion  
of the thalamus and cingulate gyrus,  
not the heart  
as Booth would like to say.

He'd insist  
that the lightness of a mother's skull  
has more to do with the heart of her child  
than anything else,  
that a soul  
takes up more space  
than she or Hodgins could ever measure  
with a thousand mass specs.

Sometimes he makes no sense at all.

But she likes to hear his voice  
when all else is silent, when the diner is deafening,  
to see his face when he brings it in close,  
like if he could just get  
close enough,  
neither of them would ever feel alone again.

She can still feel his arms around her--  
warm fingers in her hair,  
steady breath in her ear,  
the smell of hay surrounding them.

There was no question he understood,  
that he knew without a doubt  
who she was.

She's not positive if she can still claim the same.

As an anthropologist, she knows very well  
how the Ju/'hoansi name their children,  
how the Torajan mourn their dead;  
she doesn't know  
how to bury Ruth Keenan.

It's Christine Brennan  
that she'll put in that grave,  
not some stranger.

She doesn't want to believe  
Christine Brennan was a stranger.

She doesn't know what to think of her father.

Max Keenan  
has been gone  
since before she can even remember.

Matthew Brennan, the man she knew,  
was never really there at all.  
He didn't exist.

It was all a lie.

Wasn't it?

Whatever the case,  
he's still out there, even now,  
and has been for all these years--  
changing names, changing faces,  
nowhere to be found  
when she needed him most.

It's so much easier to forgive her mother  
when she knows she'll never see her again.

His voice on the machine was very much alive.

She didn't want to hear it  
and was desperate to hear it,  
all at the same time.

When she again hit play the following morning,  
standing tall in her robe,  
blinking fast,  
Russ stepped forward without a word  
& took her hand in his.

Once upon a yesterday,  
he too was just a voice on the machine.

When she looks at him now,  
something inside her, familiar & forgotten,  
tugs strangely,  
like it's being pulled out from within.

She wants to tell him,  
_You were my anchor. You weren't supposed to leave._

It was her idea to ask him to stay,  
a leap of faith amidst outlandish prizes  
& one would-be lover's  
conspicuous gaze.

She'd never admit it, but  
it's what she's wanted all this time--  
for someone to stay.

Rationally,  
she knows that's an unreasonable desire.  
She can accept that.

Temperance Brennan prides herself,  
and always has,  
on being reasonable,  
on accepting  
the natural order of things.

This skull, these bones,  
she can make sense of them  
in a simple way her heart cannot.

She can step back, close her eyes,  
and look at them  
as if the rest of her  
were somewhere far away.

For so long, this place,  
the Jeffersonian,  
has let her do that, has been  
her home, her port in the storm.  
It always keeps the lights on for her,  
never leaves her in the dark.

Placing her mother's skull  
back in the box,  
she's still not ready  
to say goodbye.

After all,  
there's nothing here  
to say goodbye to.

(Is there?)

This isn't her mother,  
once vibrant and kind;  
it's not anything that knows her  
or the things she's seen;  
and yet,  
she remains.

_Counting an endless repetition_

She won't pretend to know why.

***

"Sweetie, will you promise me something?" 

Brennan looks up from her lap. In her arms, Michael Staccato Vincent Hodgins  
is squirming about, legs kicking the air. 

His feet are so small. 

She can fit one, whole, in the palm of her hand.  
It's a happiness that almost hurts  
when she thinks of  
what's to come.

At one point in her life, she would've asked  
what the promise was for.

Now, she just nods. 

"Please don't leave." There's a glass of champagne in Angela's hand, slightly raised, as if she were preparing a toast.  
After all this time, they've earned one.

"I don't mean never leave at all. God knows you & Booth could use a honeymoon; I just mean, don't…leave."

Brennan shakes her head, confused. "I don't have any plans to leave. Also, Booth and I aren't married. A honeymoon would require that we be wed."

Angela sighs, but not impatiently. This is how it always goes.

"I know you're not planning to leave. What I'm asking is, will you stay? Just like this--as long as you can?"

Michael's feet are still kicking, like he already wants to get up & run away.

She understands how he feels.

The funny thing is,  
he'll spend his entire childhood racing  
to be an adult; when he grows up,  
he'll miss this--being held,  
not for any specific reason,  
but just because.

She suspects that she'll miss it too,  
her arms around him,  
all of human history between them. 

He doesn't even realize yet  
what gravity can do,  
but he trusts her not to let him fall.

Just like that,  
he trusts her.

A sudden tightness is beginning to build in her throat,  
climbing its way up.  
She could blame it on hormones,  
but she knows what her friend is really asking,  
and it makes her want to apologize  
for no reason.

"I can't promise you that, Ange. No one can. It's not possible to live forever."

Steadying herself, she breaks eye contact,  
wondering  
if this is one of those moments  
where all the words in the world  
could never be good enough.

Angela doesn't mind either way. She never has.  
She doesn't need all the words,  
just the notes.

_1, 2, 3, 4._

(we all fall down)

"Will you try anyway? For me?"

Brennan swallows;  
decades of living caught beneath her tongue,  
the tiny heart  
ticking in her womb;  
there's only one acceptable answer she can give:

"Yes." One quick beat -- "Always."

(down your back like a book of blessings)

Angela nods, satisfied. "Good, because you're never getting rid of me. I hope you've figured that out by now."

She has. 

She knows  
what that means.

"I love you too, Ange."

In the end,  
it's not a promise.

It's the truth.

***

The first thing she sees  
at the foot of her mother's grave  
are the fresh-cut daffodils  
bound together as one  
with a single white ribbon.

_I know you, Bones._

They should seem out of place here--  
a symbol of life amongst the dead,  
gifted to those  
whose eyes will forever stay closed--  
but they don't.

They, too, are only alive in spirit,  
plucked unexpectedly from the Earth.

And yet,  
here they are,  
heralding the rite of spring.

She already knows they're not from Max;  
he's standing right beside her  
with a grand bouquet  
of long-stemmed roses, stark-red  
& fragrant against his black winter coat.

Today is Mother's Day.

The weather  
is temperamental,  
caught in flux between one season and the next.

Every breath gets its own punctuation mark, making itself known.

She wouldn't exactly call it unpleasant.  
She wouldn't call it anything else either.

It just is.

Kneeling forward,  
her father lays the bouquet gently down  
on the ground,  
pale clouds billowing from his mouth.

_Primary colors_ , she thinks.  
Missing one.

(a silent tribute)

She didn't bring anything with her  
save the small portrait in her hand.  
Black & white--  
a study in contrasts  
shared.

Just like them.

"You didn't tell me Booth had already been here. You must've known." Temperance turns to her father, waiting.  
It's not a question; it's an answer. 

He hums in agreement, staring distantly,  
one finger tracing  
the shallow etchings on the stone.  
_Christine Brennan._  
In memoriam.

"Russ couldn't come. I think Booth saw it as his duty--as a sort of quasi-son-in-law, you might say. I told him that you'd be here, that we both would." 

Standing, Max sweeps the dirt off his pant legs, still facing forward. "He's a good man, Tempe. Your mother would've liked him. Even I like him."

She can't help but smile a bit at this. If he'd had his way, there would've been a real-life shotgun wedding at the FBI, complete with his & hers bullets.

Blanks, of course,  
but it's the thought that counts. 

"I like him too, Dad."

Amused, he directs a pointed glance toward her middle. "Well, that's no secret. Not that it ever really was, mind you, for either of you two kids. Might as well have hired a skywriter."

Indeed.

There would've been no shortage  
of eager pilots, that's for sure.

"I miss her, you know." 

Startled, Brennan holds in a breath,  
unsure how to properly respond.  
The transition is too abrupt.

She is still sometimes that  
hollow-mouthed girl inside,  
tripping over the rules, afraid to look back,  
unable to move forward.

She keeps going anyway.

Sooner or later,  
she always finds her way,  
even if she has to pave the road herself.

"I miss her every day. Even when I don't realize it." Max pauses, briefly.  
"I know you do, too."

She allows for a quick nod, smoothing the picture in her hand. "I've grown accustomed to it."

"I don't think that's really something you can grow accustomed to, sweetheart." He shakes his head, gestures around them. "You know, people only say that time heals all wounds because they wish it were true. But you still carry that pain with you wherever you go, and it never stays the same. It changes, just like you do."

Fighting frustration, she wants to turn away,  
but she won't.

People are always  
telling her what she feels,  
what she should feel,  
masking their own feelings  
in the process. 

It's not wrong, but it's not right either.

There's more than one way to heal,  
more than one kind  
of wound.

"Except I wasn't really given a choice, was I?"

His eyes flicker with something; she's not sure what. She can't make him out. "No. No, you weren't. But you shouldn't have to get used to it."

Unbidden, an image appears  
all at once in her mind--  
a young Zack  
sitting calmly at his station, peering up  
& out at her from somewhere within himself--  
only a memory. 

_Don't listen to what people say, Dr. Brennan. Listen to what they don't say._

She remembers  
how she stood there & stared after him,  
dumbfounded,  
one arm halfway into her lab coat.

_That doesn't make any sense, Zack._

His mouth hung open as she spoke,  
like he couldn't wait to get his next thought out fast enough,  
as if there were never enough time.

She remembers that, too,  
the way he'd leap into a reply, into everything he did,  
all or nothing. 

_I know. That's what I just told Angela, but then she walked away without explaining. What does it mean?_

Angela. Of course.  
Her next guess would've been Booth.

_It doesn't mean anything. It's not physically possible to listen to something that's not said._

He nodded & returned to work. If she didn't know better, she'd have said he looked relieved.

If she'd known differently,  
if she'd been able  
to save him,  
she would have.

But she didn't,  
and she couldn't.

It still weighs heavily  
after all these years,  
irrational as that may be.

Everyone wants  
to protect someone;  
longing for the impossible  
is an ache that knows  
no beginning  
and has no end.

Back in the present,  
she bends to the ground  
& lets the picture go--  
right between the roses  
& the daffodils, an ideal meeting place  
for all the people  
they have been.

She doesn't bother talking to the headstone  
to announce whose baby it is  
in the photo;  
some things don't need to be said.

Some things fall through the cracks,  
too slippery  
for words.

Perhaps that is what Angela meant  
all along.

Her father clears his throat. "I know there's no way to turn back time. I know that we do what we have to do in life to get by. I just wish I could fix all of this for you. For me. For Russ." 

He slowly grips her hand, holding on tight,  
the cool touch of a silver  
fin against his palm.  
He hasn't forgotten.

All those sleepless nights,  
the months & years  
that passed in an instant, the look  
on his wife's face as she returned from the park;  
together, they lit sixteen candles  
and blew them all out.

(the house opened up wide)

She was their greatest wish  
right from the beginning,  
the final piece in a flawless puzzle.  
One big happy family. 

"I learned a long time ago that you don't have to die to stop living. I never wanted that for you."

_She isn't you. She's her, and you're you. You're alive, and she's dead._

Her hand still in his, she grasps back. "I'm not dead, Dad. I'm very much alive." 

Eyes on the horizon, breathing  
in & out--making her mark,  
seeking out patterns;  
it's okay.

Life  
is a work  
in progress.

"I may be used to it, but I do feel it. I do miss her. At times, I even miss you." 

Before he can interject, she continues. "I realize that makes no sense. I can see you anytime I want now, but…"

His chin tucks down, eyebrows raised. She doesn't need to explain.  
"But that wasn't always the case."

Dropping her hand, she holds his gaze. "No, it wasn't; however, I'm glad you're here." 

Some things do  
need to be said.

(there's no turning back)

He shares a small smile in return.  
There's no way to make it right,  
but that doesn't mean  
it can't get better.

They came here together  
in the same car, side by side,  
arguing  
over the radio.

For more than a decade, that would've been impossible.

Occasionally,  
a left turn  
is exactly what's right.

He closes his eyes, letting the moment sit;  
he can imagine  
four pebbles skipping  
over the surface of a pond,  
one hand waving goodbye,  
the beginning and the end.

"You ready?"

There's a single tear  
trailing down  
the side of her face.

She'll cry if she wants to.

And she does  
want to.

It's time…

(one girl's shadow behind the door)

It's safe now  
to come outside,  
to leave it all  
behind.

They're waiting for her.

Her bags  
are packed;  
the sun is falling.

All the things that  
gravity can do--  
she's no longer afraid  
to jump.

And so,  
she leaps.

"Yes. Take me home."

\---

**Fin**

 

( _All My Stars Aligned_ , St. Vincent)

 

\---  
\---

And that's it! As promised, here's a list of citations for direct quotes:

-[Bereft](http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robertfrost/12137), Robert Frost.

-[Here's the Church](http://www.famousquotes.me.uk/nursery_rhymes/here_is_the_church.htm).

-[How To Be Alone](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7X7sZzSXYs), Tanya Davis.

-[Humpty Dumpty](http://www.smart-central.com/humpty_dumpty.htm).

-[Sunrise, Sunset](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oe3t5MVpBg8), Bright Eyes. (just the song title, but still)

-[It's My Party](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsYJyVEUaC4), Lesley Gore.

-[I Measure Every Grief](http://judithpordon.tripod.com/poetry/emily_dickinson_i_measure_every_grief.html), Emily Dickinson.

-[Devotion](http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/robert_frost/poems/624), Robert Frost.

-[Ring Around the Rosies](http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/games/songs/childrens/ringaroundmid.htm).

-"Life is a work in progress" can be credited to my good friend keenai over at LJ. She told me that once, and I decided a shout-out was in order here. Heh.


End file.
